


Work This Body

by annundriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3865840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian's sixty percent sure he’s not doing anything to <i>actually</i> help the Bull with his crunches, but if the Bull isn’t going to say anything, than neither is Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work This Body

**Author's Note:**

> An interlude in [dinojay's](http://dinojay.tumblr.com/) alternate universe in which the Iron Bull owns a gym and Dorian becomes a member.

Dorian kneels against the Bull, weight against his feet, leaning into his calves. He’s…sixty percent sure he’s not doing anything to _actually_ help the Bull with his crunches, but if the Bull isn’t going to say anything, than neither is Dorian. Especially when the view is so nice. After all, he has a front row seat to all of the Bull’s…assets.

“You’re staring, Dorian.”

Dorian’s eyes linger on the bulge of the Bull’s cock, covered only by the red shorts he favors. Shorts he seems to save specifically for Dorian’s visits. Even more specifically for the visits that run past the gym’s usual hours. Deliberately, he licks his lips before letting his eyes travel p to the Bull’s face, lingering—for good measure—on his nipples. “Are you complaining?”

The Bull’s huffed laugh does things to Dorian’s insides. His outsides as well, to be honest. Coupled with the prominent bulge and the light sheen of sweat, the musky smell of Bull in the air, Dorian has to shift slightly. Which only garners another huffed laugh and a wide, bright grin as the Bull does another crunch.

“Hardly,” the Bull says. “Now that I know how much you like looking.”

He does, Maker help him. He _does_ like looking. He likes watching the Bull from across the room, the great hulk of him hard to ignore, at first because, well, _wow_ , but now because, well, _still_ wow. But now Dorian knows what it’s like to be pressed against that broad chest, to feel those wide hands—so capable on his limbs when he’s assisting Dorian—capable on other parts of his anatomy. He knows what that mouth looks like when it praises him for doing something other than another set.

So he likes watching. He likes watching from _here_ , the Bull’s knees bent beneath his palms, sweat beginning to prickle at his forehead and dampen his shirt, his shorts. He can smell him, thick and salty, and all Dorian wants, all he really wants, is to bury his face there where the smell is thickest, to breathe in deep until it’s all he knows. To mouth at the Bull’s cock until those shorts are dark, soaked with spit and precome, the Bull too hard to be contained. He’d suck him off then, suck him off right here. Blush tomorrow when he comes in and meets the Bull’s eye across the gym floor, but not care, not care _at all_. 

Because the Bull is the best thing that’s happened to him since he’s moved here. He’s…Dorian isn’t normally sentimental, but the Bull makes his heart skip beats as often as he makes Dorian drool. He makes Dorian want things that Dorian was starting to think he would never—could never—have; lazy early mornings and monster movie marathons, home cooked meals and pre-bed massages. Dorian looks at the Bull, his wide chest and his scars, the patch over his eye, the span of his horns and the ridiculous pull of his smile, and wants all of that, wants the hot sex and the parts that happen before and after and everything in between. It’s terrible and wonderful, and some of that must show on his face because the Bull is looking at him with something like amusement and something like want, and isn’t it amazing to think that you can be looked at with both at once?

“You’re thinking too much,” the Bull says. Another crunch.

“It’s what I’m good at,” Dorian says. “Thinking. The best, even.”

The Bull quirks an eyebrow at him from the floor before pulling himself up with a grunt. “Not sure I’d say _that’_ what you’re best at.” He lowers himself back, leering up at Dorian. “I can think of several things off the top of my head I might rank higher. That thing you do with your tongue, for example. Or the trick with the lightening. Your ability to ride my dick is also pretty—”

Dorian groans, and shifts against the Bull’s knees, his shorts a little too tight. “I am fantastic at all of those things, it’s true.”

A grin, all teeth, and suddenly the Bull’s hands are on him, his arms around him, and Dorian’s pulled between his thighs, cradled against the Bull’s chest. “You are fantastic,” the Bull says, and then Dorian’s being kissed. It’s enthusiastic and wet and Dorian laughs into it, revels in the fact that he _can_ , that what they have between them is fun. That he never feels laughed at, but laughed with.

It’s the most freeing thing he’s ever felt.

“Stop, you brute,” he protests, pushing at the Bull’s chest. “You absolute bea— _oh_.” Dorian’s breath catches as the fingers of the Bull’s right hand press against him through the fabric of his shorts. “Oh, I—”

The Bull blinks up at him, eye wide and—ha!—innocent as he pulls the shorts tight between the cheeks of Dorian’s ass. “Yes?”

Dorian squirms, feels the Bull’s fingers hard above him, the Bull’s cock hard below him. Feels his own heartrate kick up and his breathing start to change. They’re on the floor in the middle of the gym—after hours, thankfully, and the only ones there, but still—and all he wants is to feel that hand against him without the shorts in between. To strip them both and tuck their cocks together, come as Bull fingers him, and then lick Bull clean.

“I—”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. He and the Bull are, apparently, on the same page because the Bull’s hand is slipping from the curve of his ass, his fingers skimming along the waistband of Dorian’s shorts. The touch—light—makes Dorian shiver, his own fingers tangling in the straps of the Bull’s shirt. He bites his lip and the Bull groans, eye on Dorian’s mouth, and hitches up into him even as his hand slips into Dorian’s pants, fingers teasing at the line of his ass.

“Dorian,” he says, eye looking a little glazed as his fingers travel up, then down, up again. He’s got his other hand, his free hand, on the small of Dorian’s back, holding Dorian in place, and Dorian wishes they were back at his place or the Bull’s, wishes they were someplace with a bed and lube within easy reach, where the Bull could turn them and fuck him into the mattress—or floor or sofa, Dorian’s not picky. But he wants that, suddenly, wants to feel the Bull’s bulk over him, to feel him _in_ him, hot and thick and undeniable.

Swallowing hard, Dorian nods, lets his bottom lip slide loose to kiss the Bull. He squirms against him to reach, and the movement sends delightful shivers through him, the Bull’s cock insistent against the line of his hip. “Do it,” he breathes. “Fuck, Bull, just—”

One of the Bull’s fingers presses against him, and Dorian’s hips twitch. The Bull groans, presses Dorian closer with the hand on his back, lifts his hips that much more off the floor. He grinds them together, friction building between them, and it’s good, it’s _so good_ , but Dorian wants skin on skin, wants Bull’s fingers slipping wide and slick inside him, wants Bull’s cock thrust deep. He wants to wake up in the morning and feel sore not because of the crunches or the lifting or the lunges, but because the Bull bent him in half and had his wicked way with him.

_Maker_ , he thinks, _if only…_

If only what? They live in the same building, and they’ll go home tonight after this, the backs of their hands brushing as they walk down the street, Dorian’s blood boiling as he thinks about what will happen as soon as the door to one of their apartments closes behind them. He feels insatiable around the Bull, and that’s not new, exactly, but it’s doesn’t feel the same as it did when he was younger. The rush feels headlong and terrifying, but also like they’re building toward something, like each encounter is another brick in a foundation Dorian didn’t know they were laying until it was halfway through. And now they’re here, the Bull teasing at his entrance—teasing, but nothing more—as he pushes up against Dorian, as he grinds Dorian down, and all Dorian can think is _yes, yes, whatever this is—_

“Fffuck, yes, Bull,” he groans, forehead dropping to the Bull’s clavicle. He mouths at the skin there, tastes sweat and skin, feels the Bull’s heart thumping beneath his curled fist. Shifting, he finds purchase with his toes, moves his hips against the Bull’s and feels like crowing when the Bull’s head drops back with a thud, his thick neck exposed. Dorian takes the opportunity—with his newfound purchase on the mat—to maneuver himself upward. Not only is the friction delightful, he’s able to mouth at the column of the Bull’s throat, feel his pulse jump beneath Dorian’s lips and tongue. The groan that reverberates up through him when Dorian applies his teeth is particularly satisfying.

It sets something off in both of them, because the next moment turns frantic. Dorian aches to be touched, to feel the Bull’s hands and mouth everywhere, to give himself up to the Bull and whatever he wants. To turn around and take for himself. They grind together there on the gym floor, hips working, hands holding tight, heat and sweat gathering between them until Dorian’s heart is pounding and his body feels on fire, until everything is too much, too much, and all it takes is the brush of the Bull’s fingers against his ass and Dorian is coming in his shorts, coming hard between them with a shout.

The Bull is well on his way to following, and Dorian would like that, he really would, but what he’d rather have is that cock inside him, and so he uncurls his fingers from the Bull’s shirt, wriggles out of his grasp. He works himself downward, barely thinking. He knows he must look half-crazed, but when he glances up the Bull’s body to see the Bull staring down at him, Bull doesn’t look much better. Sweaty and wide-eyed and wanting, face open and hungry, his now empty hands grasp and reach for Dorian, mussing his hair.

Dorian grins up at him, and then goes down, mouths at the mountainous bulge that smells mostly like Bull but also like them both. The shorts he wears are rough against his tongue, and there’s the vaguest hint of laundry detergent, but beneath that…Oh, beneath that there’s nothing but the Bull, and Dorian’s mouth waters. He groans against the Bull’s cock, sucking at him through the fabric, tonguing at the blunted shape of the head where it pushes against the waistband. With shaking fingers, he pulls the band out of the way, frees the Bull’s cock just enough to lap at the precome beading at the tip.

“ _Dorian_ ,” the Bull moans, fingers flexing against his head, and Dorian grins and fits his lips around the head with a sigh. He is happy here. He is content. He will take the aches in his muscles and the pain in his knees if it means that he gets the Bull sharing his spaces with him, public and private. He will take it all if it means he gets the Bull.

It doesn’t take much—some well-placed fingers, a sloppy curl of tongue—and the Bull’s coming with his own shout, hips pressing upward, hands pressing down. He’s not really fucking Dorian’s face, but it’s close, and Dorian finds himself thinking, _Next time_.

He sucks the Bull through it, licking at the come he didn’t catch, smirking when the Bull moans and mumbles something about Dorian trying to kill him.

“Excuse me,” Dorian says, crawling back up the Bull’s body on shaky arms and legs. “Who was it that started fingering my ass?”

The Bull laughs, and pulls Dorian close. Kisses him deep and filthy, as though he’s chasing the last taste of himself out of Dorian’s mouth. He pulls back with a contented sigh. “Who was it who was staring at my dick?”

Flushing, Dorian props himself up on the Bull’s chest. Pretend splutters. “If you insist on wearing those shorts, I don’t see how you expect me _not_ to. So you see, it’s entirely your own fault.”

One large hand, gentle for all its size, comes up to brush the hair back from Dorian’s temple. The look on the Bull’s face is soft and fond, and Dorian thinks that maybe they’re even closer to finishing their foundation than he thought. “It may be,” the Bull says, pulling Dorian down for another kiss. “It may be after all.”


End file.
